Friday, September 4, 2009

If only the moon would come down as breadUpon our houses and our fieldsOn wrecked homesOn tired heartsWeariness has returnedAll of the poems are sleepingAnd the months bleed months

There's nothing left on the roads except sand and discarded plastic bagsOn the mouth of the plains is a pile of bombsA pile of stone and rainColumns, like the people, bent over leaning

We've become images dried on the wallsAnd we fear the distanceWe've become like this sound, echoing off waterThey said it was done and the storm had passedThe morning has grown oldThe darkness is still like swords on our necksAnd the morning still has not come

It's early, my friendLook at the black sky and the night crawling along its borders

If only the moon would descend upon the abandoned barricadesAnd lay mines of light in our hands so that we can blow up the gravesAnd meet the night head on in the squaresAnd the stones of the buried streets would awaken to our cries and rise up

Egyptian Arabic Course

Hey guys, I've launched a new Egyptian Arabic online course in the blog format using exclusively songs to help learners of Arabic bridge the gap between their knowledge of Standard Arabic and Egyptian dialect. Check it out here.